One O'Clock Hustle: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 1) Read Free Page B

“I have to take you back, you know.”
    “I didn't do it, Rebecca—”
    “Inspector Mayfield!” she reminded him. The dog began eating as she turned on the heater.
    “Inspector,” he repeated. “I don't know if what happened to me was just dumb luck or if I've been set up, but I didn't do it. And you know I'm telling you the truth.”
    “Hah!”
    He couldn't stop himself from shivering from the cold and more—as if the tense, rigid way he had held himself while waiting for her, wondering what else to do, where else to go, could no longer be maintained.
    She must have seen him shiver because she grabbed one of the afghan throws on the sofa and put it over his shoulders. “Sit on the rocking chair by the vent.” She pointed to a maple rocker with green plaid seat and back pads, held in place by large matching bows. “You'll warm up faster so we can get you to City Jail. Coffee or tea?”
    “Coffee, please. Look, I know you believe me. You're a good cop. If you thought there was any chance at all I was guilty, no way you'd let me into your apartment. You'd whisk me off to stir so fast it'd make my head spin. But you didn't.”
    “Don't push your luck, Richie. It might just be that you looked like a whipped puppy outside.”
    He shook his head and moved to the spot she suggested. Immediately, he felt warm air on his feet and ankles. He hadn't even realized how frozen his feet had become. He could have stayed warm if he remained in his car, but then he would have missed her. He had parked far from Mulford Alley, on a street she most likely wouldn't pass as she went home. She knew his car, a black Porsche, and even though this city had a fair number of similar cars, if she noticed a car like his nearby, she might become suspicious.
    So, he parked six blocks away, walked to her building, hid in nearby doorway, and waited for her to show up. He had become so cold and miserable, he wondered if it had been a mistake not to stay in jail and take his chances with the law.
    But he had overheard Bill Sutter and the cop talking, and their conversation convinced him just how dumb that would be.
    He could have tried to run fast and far, but the cops surely had put an APB out on his car within a matter of minutes of him taking off. Besides, where would he go? And if he ran, he would look guilty—even guiltier than he did by his escape.
    On top of all that, the real killer had to be laying low somewhere in San Francisco laughing his head off that Richie would take the rap for him. Whoever that figlio di puttana was, he wouldn't get away with it.
    He would find the bastard who did this, and prove to the world that he—Richard Joseph Francis Amalfi—was innocent.
    Somehow.
    Then he thought of Rebecca. Oh, pardon— Inspector Mayfield . If anyone could do it, she could.
    He hoped.
    He watched her as she took off her jacket and then moved around the kitchen making coffee. She was tall, and if he wasn't so worried about his situation, he could appreciate being here with her—in fact, he could appreciate everything about her. Her looks were off-beat, yet he considered her as close to gorgeous as any woman had the right to be, and she didn't seem to have any idea of it. She usually twisted her blond hair back and held it in place with a big barrette, as if she didn't know what long, lush hair like hers could do to a man. Her face was kind of triangle shaped, with a pointed, stubborn chin. Her lips were full, but her eyes really got to him. They were big and blue. He had always been a sucker for eyes like hers.
    She handed him a mug of black coffee, breaking off his wayward thoughts. He knew she wasn't the type of woman he should ever think about that way. He turned his focus back to himself and his predicament while taking a sip of coffee. To his surprise, it had bourbon in it. “Isn't it against the rules to ply the suspects with liquor, Inspector?” he asked.
    “Consider it medicinal,” she said.
    “Are you having some,